


the march of progress

by marschallin



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Caretaking, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, July Revolution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 00:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19197352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/pseuds/marschallin
Summary: Combeferre and Enjolras tend to their wounds in the aftermath of the July Revolution.





	the march of progress

The omnibuses weren’t running, so they walked from the  Hôtel de Ville  to the Rue de Lourcine. It was not a very long walk, and had they not been up for several days, they might have enjoyed it. Enjolras held a handkerchief to the wound on Combeferre’s upper arm, which was growing more and more painful as the hours progressed, and their excitement faded into a dull, churning sort of melancholy. The wound would not close; Enjolras was only kept from panic by Combeferre’s disinterest. “I’ll see to it when I’m home,” he had said, as if it were an unpaid bill and not a stab from a bayonet. 

They did not speak until they arrived and breezed past Combeferre’s horrified landlady, until Enjolras opened all the windows and removed his waistcoat and cravat. Combeferre removed his coat with help, then took a pair of scissors and carefully cut away the sleeve of his shirt and pressed a wet washcloth to the hole. Sweat poured down his face. 

“Will you fetch my bag? And the shaving mirror?” His voice was hoarse. Enjolras complied and then held the mirror so Combeferre might examine the wound, the edges uneven where the bayonet tip had twisted in his flesh. 

“May I bandage it?” Enjolras lowered the mirror and touched Combeferre on the cheek, feeling several days’ growth of beard, feeling the muscles tense with pain. 

Combeferre shook his head and, with his uninjured arm, reached into his bag and by feel alone, pulled out a variety of implements. “It will need stitches,” he said. “What time is it? Before six, I think? If you are not too tired, two streets down there lives a classmate of mine. His name is Lescot and he will do as good a job as anyone. I only hope he is home.”

Unspoken:  _ I only hope he did not joined the fighting, that he is not dead or injured worse than I.  _

They pressed their hands together, and though the gesture had meaning, it was not that which might be communicated in words. 

Though Enjolras preferred to stay, and had a rather embarrassing desire to cling to Combeferre’s back like one of those horrid little monkeys that cling to their mothers, he was grateful for a moment alone. In the hall, away from Combeferre’s watchful eye, he might grimace. The wound itself was not particularly gruesome, yet it frightened Enjolras more than he could fathom; on the walk to Lescot’s rooms, he let himself be frightened. 

Lescot was not home, the porter informed Enjolras. Lescot went out on Tuesday and had not returned since. Were there any other medical students in the building? Well, no, unless one counted Boireau, who was studying pharmacy and only for six months now. 

Enjolras handed the porter a few sous and, dejected, returned to Combeferre, who had managed to make a pot of coffee one-handed.

“He was not there? No matter. Come, let me look at your head.” Combeferre motioned for Enjolras to join him on the bed, and Enjolras obeyed. His legs seemed to give out as soon as they were no longer needed, and he sunk into the mattress gratefully. The mug of coffee was too hot in his hand but he did not want to set it down; the discomfort of the heat provided a welcome distraction from the throbbing in temples, from the disappointment lodged somewhere below his sternum. 

“You’ll have a nasty lump. My apologies, I should have seen to it sooner.” 

“Do not apologize. You saved my life.”

Combeferre smiled and lowered his hand from Enjolras’s head, so that it fell into his lap; he was immediately embarrassed and removed it, though Enjolras wished he had not. “As you saved mine. Do you remember when I showed you how to stitch a wound? I know it was a very long time ago.”

“Of course I remember.” 

The demonstration had been in the back room of the Musain, after Lesgles managed to mangle his hand with a letter-opener. _“_ This will be useful for you to know,” Combeferre had told the assembled crowd. It had been winter, and the air had smelled of hot wine and cinnamon.

A gunshot sounded somewhere out the window and Enjolras thought:  _ You fools! Do you not know that it is all finished?  _ He touched Combeferre on the side and remembered how simple the procedure seemed when performed next to a roaring fire, with Lesgles too drunk to feel any pain, and Combeferre as patient and calm as if he were mending a ripped stocking. 

“Do not be afraid, Citizen Combeferre. I will set you right in no time.” It was the sort of colloquialism that Combeferre would have used, and it felt funny in Enjolras’s mouth. He gathered the materials and was struck, for the first time, how very long the needle was. He set down his coffee and found himself shivering without it.

It was a testament to Combeferre, he thought, that he did not look away. 

“I am not afraid,” Combeferre replied earnestly. “The string is already knotted. Now, remember what I said about the tension… There, you have the right grip.”

They continued in this manner for some time. Eventually, curiosity lost to human frailty and Combeferre turned away, biting at the knuckles of the opposite hand to keep from crying out. Enjolras felt terribly clumsy and useless, and was sure he’d accidentally stab some vital organ. 

When the operation was finished, Combeferre examined Enjolras’s handiwork in the mirror and frowned at the spots where the stitches had grown slack or were too tight, where the skin rippled oddly. Still, he nodded at Enjolras, and Enjolras knew that, had he done real harm, he would not receive such a nod. He felt dizzy suddenly, and his head felt like the inside of a drum.

“Thank you,” Combeferre said. “You will make a fine surgeon one day.” This with the hint of a tease, odd and incongruent with his pale face, streaked with sweat and tears. “Now, you will need a cold compress for your head. Please, rest here.”

“ _ You _ must rest,” Enjolras said firmly, helping Combeferre out of his waistcoat and mutilated shirt, undoing the clasps of his braces without a care for modesty. “I will hear no argument. Lay back and I will fetch myself a cool compress, and come to rest with you.”

It was a testament to how poorly Combeferre felt that he shrugged and lay back among the pillows. “Would you mind fetching me a nightshirt? Please take one as well; I know it is early but—“

Enjolras understood and nodded. It had been days since they had slept properly, slept for more than an hour or two at a time. He found Combeferre’s nightshirts in the top drawer of his dresser, as expected. They might have been settling down after an evening spent studying, spent reviewing a pamphlet draft, spent making cartridges by candlelight. It might have been an ordinary evening but it was not, and it was not even really the evening. 

“Courage,” Enjolras said as he undressed himself. “Now that Paris has awoken, it will not be long before she tires of this new king. We have stirred the great city; she will not rest easily after the last three days.”

Head emerging from his nightshirt, Combeferre frowned and nodded. “I ought not to have expected anything else. Life rarely works so that the thing you desire happens at once.” He lay back against the pillows. “Nor in politics. This is a step forward, if not the whole path.” 

“But still…” Enjolras lay next to Combeferre and set a damp washcloth on his forehead, which Combeferre rearranged with a fond expression. 

“It is disappointing, yes.” Almost sullen, Combeferre frowned pulled his light summer quilt over their legs.

They were silent for a few moments. Much to his surprise, the compress really did soothe Enjolras’s headache. He had not expected it to do much. 

“Yes,” he said. “I am disappointed. And when I think… When I saw the blade hit your flesh… You might have so easily—“

“—But I did not. You saved me.” Combeferre touched Enjolras on the chest briefly. That also helped to soothe his headache. 

“It is not that I did not understand the danger previously.” This was said too-fast, almost panicked; Enjolras twisted the nightshirt between his hands as he spoke. He had not wanted Combeferre to see his fear and yet it seemed to pour out of him. It was like an unclosed wound, gushing blood. “Please don’t think me naive.”

“I do not.”

“You are my very dearest friend.”

In response, Combeferre leaned closer and kissed Enjolras on the cheek. His stubble scratched pleasantly, and he smelled like sweat, which Enjolras realized was quite a pleasant smell when it was Combeferre’s sweat. He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, and gripped Combeferre’s hand, grateful that the one closest was attached to his uninjured arm. 

“Rest,” Combeferre murmured. “Rest, dear one.”

So they did.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
